


it's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart

by trousers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trousers/pseuds/trousers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>of feeling the full weight of our burdens<br/>it's the season of bowing our heads in the wind<br/>and knowing we are not alone in fear<br/>not alone in the dark</p><p>Italy's bureaucrats are planning unification, and Gilbert knows just how it feels to be on the losing side of this deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart

Gilbert is persuaded away from his video games in the basement—all he has left now, though he can't bear to think about what he once was too much unless he has a stiff drink inside him—to smile and make small talk with the nations of the world. He never feels more alone than at these gatherings, while men and women who are not truly human drink and eat and _exist_ , and he is reminded constantly that he is not Prussia any more, not even the scrap of a country he was as East Germany. He is just Gilbert—he is nothing, and nothing more than that.  
  
By the fireplace, France and Spain are laughing (and Gilbert's heart twists to think of them as proud nations, no longer the best friends—equals—who he fought with and against for so many centuries, who have almost forgotten him now). The room is saturated with goodwill and even England cannot keep his sour poker face in place tonight. Veneziano is chattering incessantly at Ludwig, whose composure is slipping and slipping, and Gilbert knows that soon he will smile fondly at the boy, and their joy will outshine even the brightest star.  
  
And Gilbert curls into himself, wishing that he had never left the comforting darkness of the basement where he can hide his misery behind beer and arrogance and a flickering screen.  
  
Precisely why he continues to subject himself to this torture, year after year, Gilbert still cannot quite discern. He scans the room, almost savouring the agony in his sick, masochistic heart, until his eyes alight on Veneziano's brother.  
  
Romano, Gilbert thinks, might be the only one who can comprehend this feeling. He scrutinises the southern nation, taking in dark smudges beneath eyes and an ever so slightly dishevelled appearance, as if he has been sleeping too little and drinking too much. Oh, Romano may try to hide it under a bristly countenance, but Gilbert recognises the signs – after all, he was the very same.  
  
Romano looks up suddenly, as if Gilbert's gaze is tangible. Their eyes meet over the noise and chaos, only for a split second – but it’s long enough. It’s long enough for him to recognise the beginnings of the desperation which he saw in the mirror for so long after 1989 (before it was simply too much to bear, and he smashed his reflection into a million shards of glass). Romano is _thin_ , not just in body, but in spirit, too.  
  
Of course, an instant later, Romano turns away, red-faced and spluttering, but Gilbert's knowing gaze has penetrated that paper-thin veneer. South Italy knows that he knows, for how could he not?  
  
And sure enough, when he leaves the house to slump on the front step and stare into the whirling snow, it is only a few minutes before he is joined by Romano, flushed and scowling.  
  
“Vargas,” Gilbert says around his cigarette, by way of greeting.  
  
Romano does not answer, but simply sits down heavily. The boy—man, now, Gilbert supposes—shivers violently, and when he pulls Romano close, there is only a second of resistance.  
  
He mumbles something into Gilbert's neck, and when he looks down he is half surprised to see tears pooling at the edges of Romano's eyes (though nothing truly surprises him anymore; he doesn't possess the energy for it). He attempts a comforting squeeze of Romano’s shoulders, and it must have been the right action because the Mediterranean nation gasps a scratchy breath and lets out something like a sob.  
  
“How?” Romano whispers, breath fogging in the frigid air, “How did you stand it?”  
  
And Gilbert smiles his cracked smile and doesn't say anything, because there are no words for the soul-wrenching pain of being denied your people—for being denied everything that makes you _you_.  
  
If things continue the way they are, Romano won't have much time left. Gilbert has heard Ludwig’s furtive telephone conversations; he knows that Italy's boss is proposing unification, and that the one to lose everything will be the rich, fertile, uncultured South. After all, Romano has been living on borrowed time for centuries now.  
  
Romano will lose all he has ever known, and soon he will be nothing more than a lost little boy stuck between human and something entirely  _other_ , never able to fit into either group again, as Gilbert suddenly found himself all those years ago. And not even his brother, who loves him utterly despite his faults, could ever truly understand it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics in the summary from The Atheist Christmas Carol by Vienna Teng
> 
> Originally written for the 2009 potatovstomato Livejournal holiday contest; heavily edited.


End file.
